


The Burdens We Share

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Canon Era, Coping, M/M, Nate POV, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What do you want, Brad?" he asked tiredly. "Why do you keep hovering? I'm not going to break."</p><p>"You can't break what's already broken."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Burdens We Share

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened. Written for Porn Battle XV and posted [here](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/65746.html?thread=9322194#cmt9322194) and [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/649940.html#cutid1). Prompt was "burden."

The scratching of Nate's pen against the paper of his journal soothed him in some way. Its simplicity grounded him, maybe centered him. Here, writing in this journal, he knew what his objective was. His objective made _sense_. 

Outside, the daily shamal was really getting going, wind whipping the sand against the tiny office nestled at the edge of a crumbling supply warehouse. The warehouse itself was a lost cause—and thus promptly ignored by the men—though the manager's office was intact enough to offer a kind of sanctuary to Nate. The other officers spent their time in the comparably nice adobe building once occupied by the Iraqi commanders here, but Nate preferred this solitude, even if it did mean a creaky desk and scavenged chair. The gusts outside provided a kind of white noise, almost enough to muffle Nate's swirling thoughts. 

Almost.

The wind battered the shaky walls and Nate paused to sweep his hand across the journal once again, the fine talcum-like sand clinging to his fingers. He'd never get all the dust out. There was something fitting about that. 

A particular stillness intruded then and Nate reminded himself that solitude was an illusion, no matter how he might wish otherwise. Especially when this Marine so plagued his thoughts, both waking and otherwise.

"What is it, Brad?" Nate asked, continuing to brush off the journal. In vain. 

His presence no longer unnoticed, Brad appeared in the open doorway that led to the warehouse, cradling his M4. "Afternoon, sir," Brad said, too casual for any official purpose here, other than the babysitting duty he'd apparently assigned himself. 

"Do I need to rustle up a new reporter for you to play with?" Nate asked drily. 

Brad observed him for a moment, like he was considering. "You'll do."

There were some roads Nate would love to follow Brad down...but he just knew he couldn't. So he made light of it. "Shouldn't you be out there disparaging the platoon's taste, intelligence, parentage?"

"When I left, those cretins were designing their own _Jackass_ -style stunts for Lilley to record. Hopefully the damage to their nutsacks will forestall any further procreation, thus relieving the world of the horrors of their mutant spawn." 

Nate let a ghost of a smile surface at that. 

Brad's eyes gleamed in response. He forced breeziness into his voice then: "And I thought you might be lonely."

Nate knew it was a tell that his smile froze and died, but he couldn't do anything as he felt it happen. Damn Brad and his fucking insight. 

"I'm not one of your ducklings, Brad."

"Of course not. That'd be downright incestuous." And there was another road Nate couldn't travel. Sometimes talking to Brad was like negotiating a minefield. 

Brad stepped into the office, propping the M4 against the wall, his presence commanding in the small space. Nate wanted to stand up and face him on an equal plane, but knew doing so would be an admission of weakness. He had to be lord and master even while perched on two wobbly crates. Fucking Marine power play bullshit.

But Nate couldn't even maintain that irritation. He was too exhausted. By everything. 

"What do you want, Brad?" he asked tiredly. "Why do you keep hovering? I'm not going to break."

"You can't break what's already broken," Brad said, low, and Nate wished the shamal outside could drown that out, whip it away like so much dust on the wind. 

But Iraq had never been that kind to him.

Nate stiffened. He did stand, then. If that was the perception, he had to do something about it. He had to _fix this shit_. "I am a lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps. I'm not—"

"Stop," Brad interrupted. 

It was surprising enough to throw Nate. Brad had never shut him down before. Brad, the quintessential Marine, never would. Not unless something was deeply wrong. 

Brad softened his tone. "No one's questioning your leadership or competence." He seemed to consider his words. "Except perhaps you," he added. "My point is that you're isolating yourself and it doesn't have to be that way."

The thing was, Nate would love to immerse himself in the platoon, let their camaraderie soothe some of his turmoil. But he couldn't. He was of the men, but he was not one of them and never would be. So Brad saying as much was just...a lie. 

"What are you going to do, Brad? Take on some of my burden? Shoulder some of my command responsibility?" Nate asked, deliberately scathing. Anger felt good right now. "Write some of my reports about all the dead kids? Maybe mediate with the captain? Tell me, Brad, what are you going to do?"

"Well, I can get you out of your head," Brad muttered. 

Before Nate could ask what the hell that meant, Brad had skirted the desk and crowded him back against the wall. 

"What the fuck—" But Nate didn't get any further because Brad pressed his body up against Nate's, hand going to his jaw as he smashed their mouths together. 

Nate's thought process completely blanked. This didn't happen in any likely scenario. Brad didn't just up and jump him, no matter what his unconscious mind liked to taunt him with in the dead of night.

And yet that was exactly what Brad had done—was doing—thumb pressing at the point of Nate's chin as he softened the kiss into something coaxing. 

The danger of Brad was that he kept offering things Nate wanted to take. And there was only so much temptation a desperate man could be expected to suffer. 

Nate exhaled into Brad's mouth as he leaned in...and then it was a different kind of blank-out, the electric slide of tongues as the kiss turned _real_ , and then urgent.

Brad pushed himself into Nate, this time with deliberate intent, solid weight both a tease and a challenge. He shifted until he could rock his hips into Nate's, hard cock evident even through their clothes.

Nate gripped Brad's shirt and that was _it_ , their hurried rocking became a mad scramble to get clothing out of the way. Thank god the MOPP suits were gone, but still, buttons seemed far too complicated for trembling fingers. 

Naturally, Brad didn't seem to have that problem, hands finding openings in Nate's uniform as if he'd done it endless times. Or imagined it just that often. Nate hissed at the feeling of fingers sliding down his abs, the most skin-on-skin contact he'd had in months almost freezing him with the sensory overload. 

Brad's hand in his pants snapped him out of it. 

Nate redoubled his own efforts. He finally got a hand on Brad's cock and stroked, Brad's groan heartfelt for all that they were both covered in fine dust from the shamal and it'd be like jacking yourself with sandpaper. 

"Hang on, I've got—" Brad produced a tube from somewhere and suddenly Nate's hand was slick, Brad's equally slick hand circling his cock and making Nate gasp. 

"Where did you—"

"Details," Brad dismissed, jacking Nate in earnest, leaning in for his mouth again. 

And then it was a no-shit jerkoff session, Nate's slick fist pumping up and down Brad's cock as he fucked into Brad's hand, sucked on Brad's tongue. Brad twisted his wrist just so on the upstroke, hand closing even tighter—

Nate was coming before he knew it, biting Brad's tongue, his own hand spasming—

And one of those was _enough_ for Brad, who promptly groaned against Nate's mouth and came all over the thin skin of his wrist. 

Nate panted as the aftershocks swept through him, Brad still plastered all over him while the shamal raged outside and the blood raged in his own ears. "Fuck," he exhaled, as if that could encompass it all. 

Brad seemed to read him, huffing a brief sound of amusement into Nate's ear. Maybe he could clue Nate in.

Instead, Brad produced baby wipes from somewhere and handed one over to Nate.

Nate used it to wipe Brad's come from his wrist, the cuff of his jacket. Fuck, he was wiping his sergeant's _come_ off of his _uniform_. 

"Don't do that, Nate," Brad said pointedly, reading Nate's thoughts like he was an open book. Like he always seemed to be for Brad, no use denying it. 

Nate shook his head as the recriminations set in. "Because I hadn't broken enough faith," Nate said bitterly. "Had to go for the complete set."

Brad swayed into him, reminding Nate that they were still so close. "No one could live up to the standards you've set for yourself."

"I think not fucking your subordinates is a pretty low bar, actually."

Brad didn't engage on that one. Instead he focused unerringly on what consumed Nate these days: "You did your job. You completed your mission. You got your platoon out alive." Everything Brad said was absolutely true. And yet—

"That's not enough."

Brad studied him for another soft moment, then finally stepped away. "I know. But until someone changes the nature of these wars, it's all any of us has."

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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